


A Circumnavigation

by boy-thighs (sop)



Category: Free!
Genre: Frottage, Kink Meme, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 00:31:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4939789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sop/pseuds/boy-thighs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for the <a href="iwatobiswimclub.dreamwidth.org">iwatobiswimclub</a> prompt: "frottage in swim trunks", written years ago</p><p>There’s nothing fancy about crowding around a small hand-me-down table and picking at soggy noodles and salty eel, but Makoto has no complaints. His longer legs bump Haruka’s whenever he leans forward to grab more fish as their overlapping toes squirm like freshly dug earthworms. It’s not awkward, though. The Makoto and Haruka definition of personal space involves a lot of accidental touching and occasional handholding (which really only happens when Makoto hears a bump in the night that makes his stomach flip flop like a fish out of water). Haruka’s right knee ends up sandwiched between Makoto’s thicker thighs as they finish their after school snack, Makoto gingerly placing bits and pieces in his mouth while Haruka gulps everything down fast. Except his water. Which he sips and savors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Circumnavigation

It’s raining.   
  
Haruka hates when it rains. 

“Thunderstorms and flash flood warnings for the rest of the day,” Makoto sighs, pushing the half-faded END CALL button on his phone. The last bits of Nagisa’s one-sided conversation fizzle out with a loud beep. Makoto can still hear his shouting through the receiver ringing in his ears, worrying about their upcoming competition— _Have you seen the size of them?! They could probably tear down a whole building with those arms!_ —and the state of Haruka’s constantly chlorine scented skin.

“Don’t let him sit in the tub for too long or I’ll have to start calling him prune-ch—“

_Click_

Haruka hasn’t moved from the patio door. The muggy heat from outside clashes with the cooler temperature indoors. Huge droplets splatter against the porch and then divide into two’s and three’s until the entire ground is covered in the heavy pitter-patter of summer’s first showers. Each wet slap against the cement reminiscent of that initial dive into the pool, when skin meets water meets stroke stroke breathe and _push_. Haruka slams the door closed.

“It’ll pass by tomorrow,” Makoto says cheerfully.

The slight frown on Haruka’s lips deepens. It doesn’t matter if tomorrow ends up being 32° without a single cloud in sky. The point is he can’t swim today.

“I’m going to cook some eel,” Haruka announces before he sulks toward the kitchen. Food: the universal mood lifter. 

Makoto slips on a loose shirt, but forgoes pants; they’d both worn swim trunks underneath their school slacks (Haruka never really takes his off) and it’s just too damn hot for another layer of clothing.

In the kitchen, Haruka’s got two portions of eel lying on the counter. The grill slowly warms up on the stove, adding another level of insufferable heat to the already humid house, while Makoto rummages through the fridge for that leftover udon noodle concoction Gou dumped on Haruka last Monday. He knows Haruka’s got it stashed somewhere in the back, probably behind the juice where all the other unwanted food in Haruka’s fridge go to die.

The loud sizzle behind him directs Makoto’s attention away from his mini scavenger hunt.

“Haru-chan, you really should wear more than just an apron while you’re cooking. You could burn yourself!” Makoto knows that no, Haruka won’t wear anything else because he’s never bothered to take Makoto’s advice seriously and that he probably sounds like a broken record by now, but what kind of best friend would he be if he didn’t at least try every time.

Haruka waves his chopsticks in Makoto’s general direction, as if saying _yes, yes, I know_ , before he flips their two pieces of fish. Perfectly timed.

There’s nothing fancy about crowding around a small hand-me-down table and picking at soggy noodles and salty eel, but Makoto has no complaints. His longer legs bump Haruka’s whenever he leans forward to grab more fish as their overlapping toes squirm like freshly dug earthworms. It’s not awkward, though. The Makoto and Haruka definition of personal space involves a lot of accidental touching and occasional handholding (which really only happens when Makoto hears a bump in the night that makes his stomach flip flop like a fish out of water). Haruka’s right knee ends up sandwiched between Makoto’s thicker thighs as they finish their after school snack, Makoto gingerly placing bits and pieces in his mouth while Haruka gulps everything down fast. Except his water. Which he sips and savors.

“Haru-chan,” Makoto says, licking the sauce off his lips, “you should try Gou’s noodles. You need more than just eel.”

Haruka swallows. “How many times have I told you to lay off the—“

A cold wad of noodles stuffs Haruka’s mouth until his cheeks balloon. Makoto bites his lip to keep from laughing. How cute chipmunk Haruka would look as his wallpaper.

“Chew,” Makoto warns with a wag of his chopsticks.

Haruka grumpily obeys.

Cleaning up is a quiet affair. Haruka wipes down the table (and dumps the rest of Gou’s awful noodle dish into the trash) while Makoto happily scrubs the grease off the grill. The steam from the hot faucet fogs the kitchen windows as the temperature inside steadily matches outside. Makoto tugs at the collar of his t-shirt to keep it from sticking. The Nanase residence lacks good central air conditioning and Makoto regrets not suggesting they take shelter at his house instead. This is worse than the infamous sauna trip Nagisa thought would be oh so fun. Hint: it wasn’t. It is impressive, however, how long Haruka’s ban (4 years, 28 days, 12 hours and 48 minutes remaining) from entering said sauna ever again is. Apparently tampering with the controls so that the steam turns to liquid is a big no-no.

“Haru-chan?” Makoto shuts off the faucet and wipes the last bits of water from the grill pan with a clean dishrag. “Where do I put this?”

But Haruka’s (predictably) gone.

At least he did some of the work before ditching him for the tub.

There’s probably something very comforting about being submerged in freezing bath water, but Makoto’s not sure what that something might be. He’s happy enough to just sit on the edge and watch Haruka exhale bubbles, though, counting how many pop before he resurfaces for air. 57… 58… 59…

“Couldn’t wait, huh?” Makoto jokes as Haruka finally sits up, water rippling around him in misshapen circles.

Haruka shakes his head back and forth like a dog that’s just come in from the rain, and Makoto’s his proverbial carpet, soaking it all up.

“It’s cooler in here,” Haruka reasons, which is true. The humidity has only gotten worse. But even if the water was 50° and boiling, Haruka would still find a way to sit and soak. “Join me.” His wet hand sloshes out of the tub, waiting expectantly.

Makoto’s cheeks flare and he’s almost certain it has nothing to do with the rising temperature. “Ah, I don’t think we’ll both fit,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck

That’s not what Haruka wants to hear so he takes matters into his own hands and yanks Makoto forward until all 183cms are toppling into the tub, water gushing over the edge. Makoto flounders like a toddler in floaties until he’s right side up and soaked from head to toe, t-shirt suctioned to his skin and hair plastered against his face. Haruka hides his smile just beneath the surface.

“You could’ve killed me!” Makoto wails dramatically, arms flapping childishly. He half-heartedly kicks Haruka in the leg but the water stunts his movements so that it’s more like a love tap than an actual kick. Makoto claims a small victory in the form of flicking some water into Haruka’s left eye.

Haruka: 1

Makoto: .0000000001

They barely fit. Makoto’s right leg hangs over the ledge while Haruka’s legs play chutes and ladders until he’s comfortably resting his right foot on Makoto’s left thigh and his left foot on the tub floor, knee bent and leg falling open, appendage pillowed by Makoto’s still-somewhat-in-the-tub right thigh. It’s uncomfortable and even the slightest movement floods the bathroom, but Haruka was right. It is cooler. The toy dolphin Makoto bought Haruka for his 6th birthday—back when the number of squeaky toys owned directly reflected your “cool” quotient—bobs up and down between them, its beady little eyes passing judgmental stares as it goes around and around and around, mini whirlpool courtesy of Makoto’s index finger. Haruka flicks it in the nose.

Ten, thirty, fifty (?) minutes go by without a single word being said, just the loud slap of rain against tile as it continues to pour outside.

Makoto cracks open an eye and sees Haruka asleep at the other end, head tipped back and lips parted. He’s lightly snoring, too, and Makoto wishes he had his phone on hand. Nagisa would probably use it as blackmail material for all eternity or maybe just e-mail it to Gou so she could stop pestering him for “more information about ~Haru-chan~ please, please, _please_!” “Crush” is perhaps not strong enough a word to describe Gou’s recent infatuation/obsession/unhealthy fixation with her brother’s former best friend.

The water’s no longer cold, just barely room temperature. Makoto’s fingers resemble the shriveled prunes he sometimes packs for Haruka’s lunch.

“Haru-chan,” Makoto whispers as he gets out of the tub, water displacing, “you can’t fall asleep in here.” His right leg’s uncomfortably cramped.

Haruka softly whistles through his nose.

Makoto cups the sides of his mouth and whines, “Haru-channnnnn~” He’s never sounded so obnoxious in his life.

And still nothing.

According to experts (the Internet), sitting in a tub for too long is bad for your health. These experts didn’t exactly say why (the big red **DANGER** in all caps sort of distracted him from the rest of the article), but Makoto firmly believes in the time honored tradition of helping a friend in need. So when Makoto bends down to lift Haruka out of the tub, he doesn’t expect just how fast his plan could backfire. Or that he’s currently on his back. Literally.

Haruka hovers above him, equally dazed and confused by his current location and makes a small noise of disapproval. Makoto rubs the back of his head to check for blood. There is none. Just a small bump that’ll probably bruise in the next hour or so.

One misplaced puddle plus one disgruntled hydrophile multiplied by the sum of their squirming equals a near trip to the hospital.

“You okay,” Makoto manages through gritted teeth. Haruka’s more or less dead weight on top of him, but he seems okay.

“Fine,” Haruka mumbles into Makoto’s clavicle. He’s still soaking wet and dripping all over the floor and Makoto. “You?”

“I’ll live.”

“You should’ve woken me up.”

“You don’t think I tried? You sleep like a log, Haru-chan.”

Haruka snorts indignantly and shifts so that he’s completely on top of Makoto, well past the point of too close for comfort. “I could just sleep here instead,” he announces before turning Makoto’s wet body into a soggy mattress.

It’s hilarious if only because somewhere between Haruka sliding his hips a little higher and pressing his whole weight down did Makoto’s dick decide to react to all of this, hardening embarrassingly fast inside his jammers so that it’s practically poking Haruka’s thigh, and Makoto almost wants to laugh because his first thought was to push up and not away. Which is ridiculous. Because Makoto’s not exactly harboring any latent homosexual feelings for his best friend and he refuses to believe that Haruka’s shifting and squirming around his crotch turned him on. Except here he is, sporting a semi in his trunks, and Makoto can tell by Haruka’s quickly reddening face that he’s definitely felt it.

Haruka stills above him, not saying anything for a good ten seconds—the longest ten seconds of Makoto’s life, before he unexpectedly brings his hips back down, angling and rotating until their dicks nearly line up.

It’s an unspoken invitation, an almost _I could if you want me to_ , and Makoto doesn’t realize that Haruka’s just as hard as he is until the throb of his cock, hot and thick, drags against his with a small shift of their hips. None of the six hundred, monosyllabic (almost) words swimming through his head are anything close to an answer except maybe—

“Fuck,” Makoto breathes when Haruka does it again, brushing their erections together experimentally.

Makoto’s hands scramble for purchase against the wet tile as Haruka starts to rut against him, shallow and aimless, like he’s testing the water before taking the plunge. Makoto breathes heavily through his nose and his head fogs with arousal each time their cocks touch. The polyester chafes against his dick, and it’d probably feel better if they’d thought to take their jammers off, but Makoto’s too afraid to do anything but moan when Haruka drags his cock against the seam of his shorts all the way up to the elastic band and back down again

They both groan when Haruka props himself up on his arms, elbows and muscles locking, as he focuses on rotating his hips just right so that it actually feels like fucking and not just some middle school dry humping. Makoto spreads his legs a little wider and starts to rut back, pushing up as Haruka thrusts down, until they’re both panting for air. Haruka buries his face against Makoto’s shoulder, unintentionally grazing his teeth against the blotchy red skin when Makoto unashamedly palms his ass for more, faster, harder.

The rhythm of his heartbeat speeds up until it’s momentarily aligned with Haruka’s, blood pumping in time to the pace of his hips, then fluctuates faster and faster until Makoto thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest.

A slow heat coils from the pit of his stomach down to tips of his toes and Makoto can feel his balls aching for release; any minute now and he’s going to blow his load in his shorts. It’s hard to tell if he voiced that thought or not because the only word Makoto remembers saying is “I’m—“ before hot cum floods his jammers, sticky and dripping down his left thigh. His whole body tingles with oversensitivity and his cheeks tint like they normally do after a good orgasm

Haruka grunts low in the back of his throat as he settles his entire weight against Makoto and comes, too, thighs quaking and elbows trembling until he finally gives in and collapses on top of Makoto, completely boneless.

It’s almost silent except for the pouring rain.

Makoto’s tongue feels thick and heavy, like someone’s stuffed a handful of cotton balls down his throat, and he can barely swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. Or what he’s supposed to say. Thanks for that, it felt much better than a handjob!

Haruka peels himself away from Makoto’s sweaty body and flops onto the floor, bare skin pressed deep into the white tiles. He looks mildly dazed, and Makoto shamelessly follows the trail of his tongue as it licks from corner to corner, lips slick with spit. 

Makoto wants to kiss him.

So he does.

It’s awkward and blatantly obvious that neither of them has all that much experience, but Makoto tries taking his time to learn the layout of Haruka’s mouth. He tastes like fish and overly soy sauced noodles. Makoto’s hand cups Haruka’s cheek and he rubs his thumb in slow circles, adding a bit of tongue to their kiss when Haruka opens his mouth that much wider. One last lick to the roof of Haruka’s mouth and then Makoto’s pulling away, face flushed and hands trembling. A small whine escapes Haruka’s throat, as if he doesn’t want Makoto to stop just yet.

Makoto shifts his legs and then he’s reminded of the dried cum in his jammers. “Sticky,” he mutters, pulling down at the crotch.

Haruka smiles. “You can borrow some boxers if you want,” he says. They’ve done that before, usually when Makoto slept over and forgot to pack a fresh pair in his backpack.

“That’d be nice—wait!”

Makoto slaps two hands over his eyes because Haruka’s puling his Speedo off and chucking it in the corner, which is ridiculous considering they just—yeah. But Makoto still has some sense of decency left in him, even if he does take a quick peek between cracked fingers and oh.

“Stop being a pervert and put these on.”

Warm cotton slaps Makoto in the face with a soft _oomph_. He drops his hands and looks down. Dolphin patterned boxers. A gag gift from two Christmases ago. Makoto turns around and tries to change as discretely as possible while Haruka drains the tub. Goodbye wet t-shirt and…unmentionables.

“You look like a wet dog,” Haruka laughs, toweling his hair dry. He takes a good whiff of Makoto, which would probably be weird under different circumstances, but the past ten minutes have been the textbook definition of weird, so Makoto just goes with it. “Smell like one, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

Makoto traps him with his towel, catching him off guard, and wraps it over his head until he looks like a giant Haruka-sized lollipop. It only takes about 3 licks to get to the center. Guaranteed.

He only lets go because Haruka lands a surprise attack on his foot and he’s this close to slipping again.

“It’s still raining,” Makoto sighs in disappointment. “I can’t walk home in this.” He’d almost forgotten about that. He should probably call his parents and let them know.

“Stay the night,” Haruka blurts out faster than he can take it back.

Makoto’s not sure if he’s supposed to decline, politely turn down Haruka’s tempting offer for the sake of friendship, childhood memories, and blah blah blah, or if he’s supposed to be selfish for once in his life and say, _yes, please keep me_ as desperately as he wants to right now.

The smile on his lips gives him away. “Okay." 

Haruka’s futon is small, designed for one, but they somehow squeeze onto the mattress, arms and legs resembling an elaborate jigsaw puzzle. It’s too hot for sheets, but Haruka doesn’t complain when Makoto wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him close enough to affectionately nuzzle his hair. They used to do this as kids, huddle under the sheets and play fight until Makoto finally won—the extra centimeters always helped—and spooned Haruka in victory. Makoto’s never really grown out of it, but Haruka doesn’t mind.

“Sleep well, Haru-chan,” Makoto yawns in his ear.

Haruka kicks him in the shin. “Lay off the chan.”

**Author's Note:**

> re-post from my [dreamwidth](https://sop.dreamwidth.org/2651.html#cutid1).
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/boysthighs) // [tumblr](http://boy-thighs.tumblr.com/)


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